There is nothing to prevent our sheep from being as manageable as any
others. I once had a lamb given to me, because its mother could not
nurse it; and I kept it in some nice hay in a large basket, and fed it
with warm milk from the spout of a teapot. As it gained strength, I let
it run about the house, and it was a droll sight to see the big lamb
come bouncing and scampering into a room full of company, hunting the
cat about, leaping over chairs, and playing just like a frolicsome
kitten. If I walked out, it would, like the eastern sheep, follow me. I
have taken it for miles along the public road, and never saw it appear
frightened. It was stolen and killed before it became quite a sheep; but
I have no doubt it would have continued as tame, and as bold, and as
happy. If you look into the faces of a flock of sheep, you will see a
great variety of countenances among them, and some are very intelligent.
There is a field near me, where I often go to walk; and a number of
young sheep in it have taken such a fancy to Bronti, that when he stands
still they will come almost close to him, the ram foremost, as if
wishing to play with him; but if he goes towards them, off they trot,
poor things, to the other end of the field.

Not long ago, I saw something that made me quite unhappy; and indeed it
was one reason for my writing this little book. A boy was driving a few
sheep, and he got them into a corner, on some very high ground, from
which they could not possibly get away without jumping down where they
must have broken their necks, or limbs. Then this bad boy called
another, and they both took up large stones that were lying about the
road, and threw them at the innocent sheep--or rather lambs, for they
were not full grown. I saw them hit on their heads and eyes, and nearly
mad with pain and terror. I never saw a more cruel thing: I thought
Bronti would have seized the boys, he was so angry. I could not help